The Look
by seeyouontheice
Summary: set in the future sometime. shorter than most of my OneShots


You can't quite look directly at them. Instead you examine the room, trying to work up enough courage to take a quick glance – which was why you'd returned. Despite not looking you still see out of the corner of your eye. The stillness unnerves you. It just seems so … _wrong._ Final. There is nothing more that can be done now because it's far too late for that. You're not even sure why you went back into the room; you know it's not to say goodbye.

It had taken such a terribly long time for the number on the machine to waver down to zero. It frustrated you that everyone was keeping you in the dark at times too. They couldn't understand that you needed to know _why_ this outcome was the only outcome. You needed to know _exactly_ why it had come to this.

Part of you is still denying it – refusing to believe it even though you were there. Part of you is adamant that it's some huge mistake and that everything will turn out the way it was before. Part of you still wishes for a miracle you know will never happen. Part of you … a minute part because you know what this means and you know that this is a one way trip; that there is no coming back for them now.

The room now seems larger without all the people crowding round the bed trying to dodge the many machines whirring and struggling to retain life. They've pulled a curtain across so you can't be seen from the open door – well, so the occupant on the bed can't be seen from the door. There is a prickling on the back of your neck as you get the sense that you shouldn't be there; as if you're afraid someone is going to come and tell you to leave.

The thought of just leaving and not looking has crossed your mind – but you know that in years to come that you'll regret it. Just like you know that if you hadn't gone into the room to witness it, you would've regretted not having the chance to say goodbye … even if you didn't actually say it when the others had told you that you should. Nor had you shed more than a few tears, nor had you broken down into the next person's arms as was expected of you. You were stronger than that and you were determined to stay strong for the others.

A whirlpool of emotion is happening inside you and yet on the outside you seem relatively calm … collected … in control. Truth is you're numb. Unable to _feel_ just yet because it is still so raw and so fresh and so … unbelievable. Inside you feel ready to break down there and then and throw your head to the skies demanding why this had to happen and telling them how unfair it was, yet on the outside you know you can't afford to do that just yet because there are those that need you. So you push it aside and ignore your hurt – your grief – and take a deep breath in preparation.

But your nerves fail you and you don't look – not yet. However the stillness is getting to you because they've been so still for so long now … it wasn't right. It wasn't fair. It was wrong. But it had happened. That which never should happen had happened and here you were, struggling to deal with it. There had been times – brief moments – when you'd let your imagination wonder what if this happened, but the reality of it all was _so much harder_ than anything you could've ever thought of months ago.

You want to scream. They were getting better! Another all-clear … another day without remission … another step closer to recovery … and yet all the while this had been lurking round the corner. You think back eighteen months or so to when you had gotten the news and the assurance that it could be treated. Stupidly, you put your faith into that cure – believed that, eventually, things would be back to how they had been and it would all be forgotten. You'd grown lax and allowed yourself to say it was over, that it was cured. Now you were kicking yourself and wishing for more time so you can tell them all the things you never said. Petty insignificant things, but now they seem important – as if they could've changed things had they been known.

And yet the suddenness of it all astounds you, because only three days ago you were arguing over what was for tea and whose turn it was to cook it. Only three days ago everything had been fine and had been perfect. And in a blink of an eye it was now over. What gets you most is that it wasn't the cancer that cause it, not in the end. In the end it had been some stupid insignificant cold that had killed them. You blame yourself for forgetting how weak the immune system still would've been and for not doing everything possible to avoid the cold being caught.

They'd said that the outcome – the final outcome; this – would've been the same even if you had called the ambulance a day earlier. All that would've happened was it would've taken longer – that the dying would've taken longer than the two days it had taken. You bite your lip so hard you think you'll draw blood as you control the tremor of your breathing. It feels like you've been in her hours but in reality it's less than a few minutes since you push aside the curtain and averted your eyes from the bed.

You need to look. Even if it is just for a second … yet you don't feel you can. You need this one last moment to fix their features in your mind but you just can't face it yet. You owe it to them to at least look – they would've said it was okay, that you don't have to and that you'd already proven enough, but you have to do it. You have to look.

It takes you longer than you thought it would, but eventually you do it; you turn your head and look before tearing your eyes away. The look had lasted only seconds and yet it felt like a life time. In those few seconds you had seen everything you knew about them and had seen how wrong they now looked because they were so _still_. It freaks you out how still they are and you can't bring yourself to touch their hand. That, you decide, would be too much.

Your breath escapes your lips in a rush as you utter a single word 'yeah …' as if you're about to burst into speech. However words fail you either because you have none or because you know that they can't hear you and that you'd just be talking to an empty room.

Now you don't want to leave. You know you have to – that you couldn't stand someone coming to find you – because the others are waiting for you to take you home and deliver the news to those you insisted had to hear it from you. The weight of responsibility comes crashing down on you in one huge wave as you know it's all down to you now. That you have to make sure that every they have done is not forgotten and that you uphold all that in order to honour the precious memories that you share.

It's all you have now; memories and photographs … however in this day and age there is sadly little need or want for those. You promise to search out every photo you can find if you can because you don't want to ever forget them. You turn your mind to those waiting at home and you nearly break again as you realise how young they are and how unlikely it is that they will fully understand what has happened. It breaks your heart to know that they have very few memories of their own to share and that they could so easily forget.

The injustice of it all makes you want to break something. You know that once you leave the room then you'll be asked continually if you're okay and if there is anything anyone can do for you and if you'll be alright. You'll say you're fine while knowing that the occupant on the bed would've throttled you at one point for using that phrase. It brings a small painful smile to your lips as you struggle to retain your composure.

Going back to the others in a mess is not an option; you have to be strong. You have to get through this … you don't have a choice not to. Those waiting at home need you and you can't afford to fall by the wayside now – even if your heart died when the machine hit zero along with theirs. You had to carry on for them and make sure they never ever forgot.

It hurt. It physically hurts to turn on your heel and march out of the room and leave it all behind you and yet somehow you do it. Before you have time to think you're surrounded and they all want to comfort you. Perhaps you're not as good at hiding it all as you used to be … or maybe they know how to see past it all. It doesn't really matter; all that matters is the two waiting still unawares back at home.

For some reason they insist on someone going with you and you don't have enough strength left to say no. You just want to tell them at home and fall asleep with them in your arms on the sofa and forget … forget for a while. It's only when you climb out of the car that you realise just how exhausted you feel. You haven't slept for a good thirty hours and it's starting to hit you but you work through it. A few more hours, you promise yourself, a few more hours and then sleep.

Whoever it was that drove you home opens the front door for you and it ushers you inside. The baby sitter greets you with a sorrowful smile and you realise that they've been informed. Then your attention is grabbed by the two running riot as if it were a normal day. Getting them to sit still long enough to tell them is hard enough because they both want to show you their new toys. Eventually you have their attention and you suddenly haven't a clue how to tell them.

Clearing your throat uncomfortably you sit with them both on your lap and hug them close, in your grief you need them close. The words come haltingly and when it came to explain they stop altogether for a moment. Eventually you get them out – you tell the two that the figure they saw being carried off in the ambulance is now in heaven. You don't believe in that crap but they are old enough to know that 'going to heaven' is a one way trip.

There is a heartbeat in which all you hear is silence and then the elder of the two bursts into tears and you feel your heart breaking. The youngest – the louder of the pair – is quiet and then you sit there for a long time, the three of you, clinging to each other to ensure that no one else has 'gone to heaven'. Being children they get down off your knee after a while and return to playing although the playing is now very subdued and you find yourself playing with them. It's something you haven't done in a long time but today you don't even wait for them to ask you.

The babysitter and your friend agree to stay the night and you have no fight left in you to argue. The children get their favourite dinner although it goes untouched as does yours. When it comes to bed time you take them both into yours, one on each side, because you can't face the being alone and you want to make sure they're oaky. But you wake much later when they are still sleeping and creep out of the covers only to sit on the sofa downstairs and weep. You've been holding it in for too long and now it comes with no sign of stopping. Arms wrap round you – four pairs, your friend's, the babysitter's and the children's – but the arms you want are now still as rock and will be forever more now. The stillness haunts you as does the glimpse of their face because although it was them, it didn't seem right.

Because you have never seen them that still before; you have never seen them dead before. There doesn't seem to be any way to get through this – no light at the end of the tunnel and no way to ever be happy again. It's all wrong and you want nothing more than the door to open and for the person you crave to laugh and say it had all been one huge mistake. But you know that will only ever be a dream that won't come true.

You wish you hadn't looked.


End file.
